La Valise Argentée
by A Crazy Elephant
Summary: Or 'Five Times Someone Saw the Silver Case and the One Time it Didn't Matter'; Companion to "Le Famille"
1. Green River, United States

**Title:** La Valise Argentée

**Author:** A Crazy Elephant

**Summary:** Or 'Five Times Someone Saw the Silver Case and the One Time it Didn't Matter'; Companion to "Le Famille"

**Category:** Family/Friendship

**Word Count: **1926

**Disclaimer:** Inception belongs to Christopher Nolan, not me. Sad.

**Author's Notes:** And welcome back. So, as I've mentioned before, I've been reading unhealthy amounts of Inception fanfiction since this summer and I've come to find I love the family types the best. Since I'm steadfastly avoiding the excessive amounts of mildly inebriated extended family presently pervading my parents' upstairs I thought I'd go ahead with another fuzzy family piece of my own.

These don't really have a point, just a little series of chronological (beginning some months before the events of the film) vignettes concerning the silver case and someone who notices it told from the perspective of that someone. Most of these (including this one: see Le Famille Chapter Five for the initial introduction to the point man's family) are heavily based in the rough sketch of the families as seen in my earlier piece, _Le Famille_. I highly recommend you take a look at that fic before coming back to this one. This will make loads more sense having read that one.

And not that it is of any consequence, but in this chapter, the town is fictional, the county is real. Again, I'm using a different tense than my usual style; let me know if I slip up. Reviews are loved; I'd love to hear what you think. = ) Happy Christmas all!

_**1 – Green River, Shelby County, Texas, United States of America**_

"_Hark the herald angels sing; glory to the new born king!_"

It's the Christmas pageant video, the first and last event of its kind Charlotte can remember participating in. Her sister Bobbie had been five at the time of that particular event and one of the Herald Angels, brother Junior at four had been an auxiliary shepherd and she at three had been a sheep. There had been singing, robes made of dishtowels and fleeces made of cotton batting. There had been the requisite 'For lo onto you is born this day' and more singing complete with a candlelight serenade at the appearance of the plastic baby doll posing as Christ. It was at that point in the evening, where she'd stood behind the older boys playing the Wise Men, dressed in the little white cotton covered track suit with her nose darkened in with eyeliner and holding Junior's hand in her left and a candle in her right that the hot wax from her candle dripped right through the little cardboard sleeve and onto her fingers. Naturally at three and the shock of such a burn, Charlotte had shrieked and dropped the burning candle which successfully set light to both the dried hay of their makeshift manger and her brother's dishtowel. Mrs. Edith, the woman who has played the organ at Green River First Baptist Church for as long as Charlotte can remember and directed that infamous Christmas pageant had leapt into action, extinguishing both the set and Junior before things got too ugly.

"So I can send this to Carol?"

The whole disastrous affair has been neatly captured on VHS by Daddy's meticulous camera work that has documented each Christmas morning, birthday party, graduation, 4-H showing, and sporting event they have participated in for the last thirty years and now plays from the laptop at the kitchen table. Every adorable moment of off- key children's choral work, wooden recitations from the Book of Luke and handmade costumes are recorded on that tragic little tape which ends abruptly with Daddy forgetting he's taping, rushing forward to collect his sobbing children and dropping the camcorder with a crash and mess of static onto the seat of the pew. It's an unfortunate piece of home video, to be sure. They are all adorable in it – Mama had let Bobbie wear the tiniest bit of lipstick that night and had neatly combed all of Junior's hair into a precious little coif while Charlotte herself spent most of the evening sucking at her thumb and hanging on her brother's hand like a lifeline – but it is not something she particularly wants all of Mama's friends reliving.

"You can-" Junior begins.

"But," Charlotte interrupts. "We'd take it as a kindness if you didn't."

"Oh Charlie Ann! Don't be that way! Junior's only tryin' to help!" Mama scolds. "Ain't you sugar belle?"

"Yes Mama," Junior answers dutifully. He's set the laptop and the converter on the kitchen table and is patiently trying to explain to their mother how exactly one transfers the epic collection of home videos and family photographs into digital files. He's looking very much like he's regretting purchasing the converter as a birthday gift and she can see him silently berating himself for forgetting that Mama, while an enthusiastic pupil, has not mastered anything more technologically advanced than the voicemail on her cell phone. Moreover, he looks less than thrilled that Mama has selected one of the more humiliating home movies in their collection (one that involves him wearing a dishtowel and sandals and getting lit on fire) to test the birthday gift in question and he is clearly not appreciative of Charlotte's presence.

_That_ ain't her fault.

That's United goddamn Airlines fault for booting her off the 6:30 AM from DC. If she'd left Regan International _on time_, she'd have been home in time to bake Mama's birthday cake. She would _not_ still be standing in the kitchen well after Mama's birthday dinner with a piping bag of royal icing and her half finished angel-food masterpiece. She would _not_ be looking foolish in one of Mama's gingham aprons and the now wrinkled suit she'd worn on the flight because there had been some dispute with the baggage handling so that her suitcase and her faith in commercial aviation bureaucracy now drifted in limbo somewhere between Dallas and DC. And she certainly would _not_ be listening to Junior repeat his instructions for turning on and utilizing the converter a third and fourth time for Mama's benefit.

"Model son, I know." Charlotte sticks out her tongue like they're six again and Junior breaks down, let's his professional grown-up façade crack and makes a face right back.

"None of that now - I know y'all are jetlagged, flyin' in from all over creation, but I don't want y'all fightin' on my birthday!" Mama insists. "And Charlie Ann, butter bean, you sure don't have to worry about the decoratin' - y'all are here and that's what matters. It ain't often anymore I get to have all my babies home before Christmas, you know."

"Yes, Mama," She rolls her eyes and Junior shakes his head, trying to bury himself back into the project at hand and just stay the hell out of it.

"_Now see here, that little red light means it's recordin'_ -" The tape has skipped through the static and straight onto Christmas dinner of the same year as the infamous pageant and Daddy showing off his camcorder to all their uncles. This portion of the tape is almost more regrettable than the pageant – not long after Daddy finishes his speech for the camera than Bobbie busts in hauling a bleeding Junior and a crying Charlotte behind her with a tale of woe concerning a four wheeler and older cousin Henry's poor driving skills. It had not been a good Christmas that year. "_Hey now! Roberta Lee – y'all are trackin' mud into my dinnin' room – Arthur Edward Junior! What the hell you done to your nose, boy?_"

"Jesus, Wart!" The sister in question exclaims as she retreats from the family room and the John Wayne film Daddy's got playing on television. "Couldn't y'all pick somethin' less . . . distressin' to test that damn thing?" Bobbie's looking more than a little tired tonight and her fuse is looking short, but Charlotte doesn't say anything because her sister's been here with Mama and Daddy all week while she and Junior have only just got in. A whole week with Mama is enough to wear anyone out and Charlotte's rather impressed Bobbie ain't angrier than she is.

"Roberta Lee! My land, you and Charlie Ann both! I don't know why y'all think our home movies are just a special kind of torture – they're wonderful memories." Mama scolds and both Charlotte and Bobbie snort giggles of the 'you've got to be kidding' sort.

"Mama picked it," Junior supplies, still trying to just finish the damn converter project and be done with it all because Lord knows Mama's attention is now hopelessly lost.

"Come on now Junior, you can't honestly say you _like_ watchin' Charlie light you on fire and Henry bust your nose?" Bobbie snorts again, eyeing Charlotte's cake appreciatively. "Or that Clark Gable hairstyle you had -" The buzz of Junior's phone from beside the laptop interrupts and Bobbie snatches it up before their brother has so much as blinked.

"Cobb," She announces as Junior makes a grab for the gadget. "I though you said it was your partner's anniversary – what the hell's he callin' for?"

"_Bobbie Lee_-" Junior warns, but Bobbie's all ready got on that wicked grin she wears when she's going to get them in trouble and clicks the talk button.

"Junior's Phone, this is his sister speakin'." She greets gleefully, but sobers as she listens. "Oh, I see." She says seriously. "He's right here." Bobbie holds out the phone. "Junior, I think you need to take this – somethin's happened." It _must_ be serious. Bobbie wouldn't give up a perfect opportunity to torment Junior without good reason and he knows it. The look on his face, something akin to terror and anticipation, says there's about a hundred awful scenarios running through his head as he takes the phone that would cause his esteemed colleague to not only interrupt Junior's weekend off, but his own anniversary.

"Cobb?" He asks into the phone.

"Junior," Mama calls as he moves out of the kitchen out onto the porch. "Sugar belle, what's wrong?" He doesn't answer and instead lets the screen door bounce on its hinges as he leaves them with the distant strains of the Western and the chatter of the home movie (in which his four year old self is presently bleeding profusely from a broken nose while the camcorder sits abandoned on the dining room table). Bobbie gives her a look, a guilty sort of look with a bit of 'do you _see_ our brother?' and Charlotte shrugs.

When Junior returns, pocketing the phone, he's set his jaw and he's got that same hurt in his eyes Charlotte remembers from cousin Jack's funeral when they were in high school, almost like something of him has been broken.

"Junior, butter bean - " Mama begins. She must see it too; the fragments of whatever's shattered in him, because she doesn't sound like her usual overbearing self.

"Something has happened." Junior repeats and his voice doesn't waver. "I have to go." And then he's up the stairs to collect his duffle and attaché and it takes Bobbie and Charlotte all of thirty seconds to follow him up. Mama hangs back, presumably to give him some space and to talk to Daddy, but they're his sisters and they'll all be ninety years old before they give him space.

"Wart - " Bobbie tests. "What happened, little brother?" She asks tentatively from the doorframe. Junior's still flexing his jaw as he checks through his pockets for passport and papers and Charlotte can tell he's slowly reaching the limits of his composure.

"Nothing." His voice still hasn't faltered, but she's not fooled. "Cobb needs me in Los Angeles."

"Junior . . ." Charlotte tries, but her brother doesn't give her a straight answer either, just keeps shuffling through his things.

"It's fine," Junior insists. He's clicked open his attaché case. Inside is a smaller, sleeker silver case. It looks cold, hard, like something television mob bosses hand over millions in cash in. He pauses a moment and for just a moment, Charlotte thinks something like anger and rage slips into his eyes at the sight of the case, as though that little metal briefcase is responsible for whatever it is that's troubling him, but it's only a passing glint and then Junior's moving again, slamming the attaché shut and slinging his duffle over his shoulder. "I'll call when I land." He assures them, pushing between, through the door and down the stairs. "I'm sorry."

"Junior -" But he's all ready down the stairs and they're just fast enough to catch him cracking the front screen door and apologizing again to Mama and Daddy who are caught somewhere between concern and disappointment at his sudden departure. She looks to Bobbie on the stair below her and there share a shrug and she is struck with an odd, childish resentment towards that phone and that case for stealing Junior away to his great big grown up life all over again.


	2. Kyoto, Japan

**Title:** La Valise Argentée

**Author:** A Crazy Elephant

**Summary:** Or 'Five Times Someone Saw the Silver Case and the One Time it Didn't Matter'; Companion to "Le Famille"

**Category:** Family/Friendship

**Word Count: **1,824

**Disclaimer:** Inception belongs to Christopher Nolan, not me. Sad.

**Author's Notes:** I apologize for the slow update, but I've been going back and forth on the progression of these chapters and I couldn't decide which I'd like to come next. Like the last chapter, this is heavily based on the families as seen in _Le Famille_. I'd also like to thank everyone for the reviews; the feedback is great!

Again, these don't really have a point, just a little series of chronological vignettes concerning the silver case and someone who finds it. As always, let me know if I slip back into the past participle; I know I slipped up a bit in the last chapter. Reviews are loved; I'd love to hear what you think. = )

_**2 – Kyoto, Kyoto Prefecture, Kansi Region, Japan**_

Jiro-kun is getting bored.

Ichiro can tell and it's a bit worrisome, especially since he's got another three pages of French verbs to conjugate and isn't exactly in the mood to entertain his little brother when the brother in question grows tired of his picture books, coloring pages and Super Mario.

He doesn't blame Jiro, of course. His brother is only five after all and waiting in Father's office where he is not permitted to touch anything or run about or generally be anything but a quiet and dutiful son, is not exactly a five year old's favorite activity. Honestly, Ichiro's not overly thrilled with sitting around until Father's out of some big meeting himself. True, it gives him time to finish some schoolwork, but this isn't exactly what he pictured for his school holiday. Father is supposed to take them to the shore and maybe Disneyland Tokyo if they're particularly good (so says Mother at any rate, but Ichiro has a hard time picturing his father in the Magic Kingdom. Father takes them places like Vail and Dubai for skiing and the beach respectively; Mother's usually the one who takes them to Disneyland for Space Mountain and those candied apples shaped like Mickey Mouse that almost always make him ill but are simply too good to not eat in under a minute), not stop off at one of Father's satellite offices for a last minute meeting about whatever it is that Father does.

"Ichiro-chan?" Jiro begins and Ichiro tries not to look up from the column of past participles he's working on. Some small, irrational part of him hopes that his disinterest will dissuade Jiro from continuing, but the rest of him knows this to be a fool's hope.

"Yes, Jiro-kun?"

"When's Father going to be finished?" Jiro continues. There's a distinct whine in his brother's voice now, the sort that usually signals Jiro's dissent into complete boredom and the end of anything like peace for everyone else and Ichiro doesn't like it.

"Soon." He lies, still trying to focus on his verbs and Jiro doesn't buy it. Instead, his brother groans and slides down in his chair, kicking his heels against the legs of the chair.

"'_chiiiro_!" Jiro whines. "I'm -"

"Why don't you play some more Mario?" Ichiro suggests, nodding to the handheld that lies abandoned on the side table and still singing it's merry little 'paused' song. "I'm busy."

"I'm finished with Mario!" Jiro insists and Ichiro rolls his eyes. There is no way his brother has beaten that video game yet. _Ichiro_ hasn't even beaten that game yet – Jiro's only just gotten it for his birthday and it's the latest so none of his friends have it either. "I have! I have!"

"Sure," Ichiro tries to sound supportive, but not really and Jiro huffs again. "Try Zelda then."

"We didn't bring Zelda." Ichiro knows this to be an out and out lie. He packed that game himself; Ichiro has a boss to beat and a code to crack, which he plans to have finished before school starts up again.

"Check my knapsack then." He nods to the bag. "Third pocket – and don't even think about nicking my iPod." Ichiro regrets the words even as they leave his mouth and Jiro's face lights up at the mention of the new toy.

"Why not?" He whines.

"Because Father gave it to _me_ for _my_ birthday – besides, you'll ruin my win percentage in Yahtzee." Ichiro explains. "Don't touch it." He repeats for good measure.

"At least let me play the Pac Man!" Jiro's whine takes on an added layer of pitiful that usually means he's about to run to the nearest grown-up and get Ichiro in trouble for not sharing. Fortunately, the only grown-up about is Father's receptionist, but she's halfway down the hall and they've been left with strict instructions not to bother her unless someone's sick or injured and just stay quietly in the grand corner office. Even Jiro, who's still not quite learned when not to test their parents' patience, knows better than break a direct order from Father.

"No." Ichiro insists.

"But _why_?" Jiro whimpers.

"Because," Ichiro says decisively in his best grown-up, big brother voice, eyes still on his verbs. He knows that caving in will mean Jiro is occupied for all of fifteen minutes before he gets eaten three or four times by the ghosts, then he'll be into Yahtzee and Plants vs. Zombies and ruining all Ichiro's hard earned stats and he is not about to let six weeks of serious strategizing and ruthless zombie destroying to be wiped out in less than an hour by a restless preschooler who doesn't even know the rules to Yahtzee, let alone understand the complex stratagem necessary to successfully eliminate the undead.

"Because _why_?"

"Because I said so." Ichiro snaps, perhaps be more sharply than he ought to have because Jiro-kun looks like a kicked puppy and snuffles a bit, sinking lower into his chair so that he's laying nearly flat against the seat and his feet almost reach the floor. At the very least, he lapses into silence and Ichiro makes it through three whole verbs before Jiro interrupts again.

"Please?" His voice is small and sad, with only a tiny touch of hope.

"No."

"Just two rounds?"

"No."

"One round?"

"No."

"I'll tell Father you wouldn't share." Jiro threatens, but even he knows it's not a particularly menacing warning given that Jiro's got not only picture books and coloring pads, but his own video games around to play with, not even Mother would lend much sympathy to his cause.

"I'll tell him you broke Mother's vase in the dinning room." Ichiro returns, even though Jiro knows perfectly well that Ichiro would _never_ tell either of their parents or any of their nannies about the Football-Into-The-Edo-Period-Vase Incident, given that it had been his own idea to play the game in the first place and will continue to allow the adults to believe that it was in fact knocked over by Mother's fat old Persian cat that has a habit of escaping the parlor to which she is confined and climbing onto the collection of antiques in the rest of the house until they are all old and gray.

"Will not!" Jiro fires back and there's a tone of triumph in the pronouncement.

"Will so." Ichiro assures him for good measure. "Just take Zelda, Jiro-kun." He suggests and Jiro rolls his eyes.

"Fine." Jiro follows Ichiro's earlier instructions, slips off his chair entirely and digs into the third pocket as though after the Nintendo chip, but of course, because he's five and his little brother, snatches up the iPod instead.

"Put it back – Zelda remember?" Ichiro reminds him over his homework.

"Make me."

"Jiro-" Ichiro warns in his best imitation of Father. It's still not the intimidating sort of order that Father issues and Ichiro doesn't have the clout to pull any of Father's sneaky, cryptic-sounding ploys that get people to do exactly as Father wants, but Ichiro likes to think he's on his way.

"Just try it." Jiro taunts, waving the device triumphantly, the little white earphones clicking together.

"Put it back." Ichiro repeats. "You'll break it."

"Will not!" Jiro hops up with a victorious grin that makes Ichiro just want to kick him and take back his iPod. Of course, he knows this will only make Jiro cry and then they'd _both_ be in trouble (Ichiro for making his brother cry and Jiro for making such a racket and then there very well could be no trips to the shore and defiantly not to Disneyland) and he is not willing to compromise his holiday plans because Jiro decided to be, well, _five_. So instead, Ichiro heaves a put-upon sigh, sets aside his French verbs and holds out his hand for the iPod.

"Give it to me."

"Won't!" Jiro insists, jogging towards the windows as though putting Father's desk between them is going to deter Ichiro from coming any closer and just wrenching the little scrap of technology from him.

"Give it back- now." Ichiro moves up to meet him and Jiro drops under the desk as if this will protect him. "Jiro-"

"Hey-" Jiro-kun exclaims. "Ichiro? What's this?" He asks from below the heavy oak and Ichiro is surprised. Jiro sounds genuinely curious and not at all teasing like he had been.

"What's what?" Ichiro drops to his knees to see what it is that has got his little brother distracted. Jiro is sitting crouched between the solid drawers and pointing to a sleek, silver suitcase that looks a little like a skinny and boring version of the hard rolling luggage they take on trips. But their rolling cases are hard plastics, not metal like this one and have a little red logo on them instead of perfectly smooth. Neither are their cases so heavy, even when they've packed their ski boots and parkas in them and are certainly never filled with little tubes and pumps and counters when opened.

"What is it, 'chiro?" Jiro asks, almost in awe, the iPod entirely forgotten as they click open the case to stare at the complex maze of technology that looks almost like it belongs on one of the American television programs with extra handsome doctors that Mother watches.

"I don't know." He answers honestly, closing the case and returning it to its original position. Ichiro isn't sure why, but he get the distinct impression that this case is one of the work things Father won't talk about, the sort that they shouldn't have seen and that they ought not to ask after. "Let's go." He slips the iPod from Jiro, who's still gawking at the little suitcase and takes his brother's hand, backing out from under the desk. "You can start in on the Goron Temple for me." He suggests, pulling Jiro back to their chairs and the waiting Zelda game.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah – here." Ichiro slips the iPod back into his book bag and swaps Mario for Zelda, placing Jiro back into his chair.

"Why would Father have a suitcase like that?" Jiro asks finally as Ichiro hands him the Nintendo.

"I don't know." He says. "Just forget about it okay? It's none of our business."

"Like a secret?"

"Yes, like a secret." Ichiro agrees, settling back with his verbs. "Go on – I want to make it to the Temple of Ice before I go back to school."

"And I can help?" Jiro's attention is back to the games.

"Yes, you can help." Ichiro assures him, grateful for once that his brother is so easily placated by notions of helping with Ichiro's videogame scores and progress and not pressing too hard into the existence of the case. It was another of Father's business-y secrets that Ichiro only half understood and one of many they were obliged to keep.


	3. Derry City, United Kingdom

**Title:** La Valise Argentée

**Author:** A Crazy Elephant

**Summary:** Or 'Five Times Someone Saw the Silver Case and the One Time it Didn't Matter'; Companion to "Le Famille"

**Category:** Family/Friendship

**Word Count: **2,096

**Disclaimer:** Inception belongs to Christopher Nolan, not me. Sad.

**Author's Notes: **Sorry for the delay; I'd hoped to get this out sooner, but I picked up the flu and have been confined to my couch with stacks of Kleenex, no motivation and all six seasons of '3rd Rock From The Sun' (John Lithgow and French Stewart being themselves with a little long-haired Joseph Gordon-Levitt being a pervy teenager always make me feel better – don't judge).

Again, this piece is heavily based off of the family for the forger found in 'Le Famille'. Before anyone asks, yes, the little ghost story Nat tells is based on Neil Gaiman's _Coraline_; I like to think that the forger would be the sort of dad to fire off an impressively creative lie rather than let his little girl know she just happened to pick out the most deformed and deranged kitten from the pet shop. And I know, she's a bit more eloquent than the average three year old, but in my defense, she's mostly just parroting back what she's been told. Again, I'm using a different tense than my usual style; let me know if I slip back into the past participle. Reviews are loved; I love to hear what you think. = )

_**3 – Derry City, County Londonderry, Northern Ireland, United Kingdom**_

"Your cat is _weird_,"

It's raining and Nattie is _bored_.

"Tink is not _weird_; he's _battle scarred_."

Mummy's all ready decreed that they aren't permitted to play outside in this weather and now Nat has to stay upstairs with her boring cousins while the grown-ups are downstairs talking _business_ and _politics_ which is not fair at _all_ because the grown-ups are all infinitely more interesting than sitting around with a pair dumb boys. Grandda always, _always_ listens to her stories and will color for hours with her if Nattie asks him to. Uncle Jackie and Gran are always fighting and while Nattie's not really sure why, it's still very exciting to see Gran turn the same shade of purple as her rain slicker. Mummy always sings her silly songs about rovers and whiskey (whatever those are) and makes her funny little sandwiches with chocolate and bananas and Daddy knows all the best magic tricks and tells her all sorts of exciting stories that make Gran roll her eyes, but even though he knows silly songs too, Declan's kind of _mean_ and Danny is just _boring _and it's taken her ages to get them to agree on any sort of game.

"He's weird." Declan repeats firmly. The cat in question, a mangy sort of tabby with three legs, one eye, half an ear, and a stump of a tail, hangs uncomfortably in Nattie's arms and looks unhappy as they retreat up from the back stairs where they discovered the unfortunate creature nesting in a laundry basket. "Just look at him!"

"Daddy says he's a fighter." Nattie explains casually, hefting the cat a bit higher so his good leg doesn't drag the ground. Tink has been particularly patient since they've been at Gran and Grandda's. They couldn't find anyone to take care of him back home and had to bring him along and Mummy says he's probably just relieved he doesn't have to stay in the little plastic cage anymore. "He fights the Beldam,"

"The _what_?" Danny asks as Declan pushes the door to the guest room that she and her parents staying in. It's smaller than her room at home, neater and darker with black and white photos of people Nattie doesn't know but Gran insists are family and little ceramic farm animals she is not allowed to touch, not all white and patterned with Peter Rabbits, Tom Kittens and Jemima Puddle-Ducks like her room at home. The toy chest which is full of old tin and wooden toys that Nattie secretly covets for their simplicity and Mummy says belonged to her and Uncle Jackie when they were children, stands open under the window from earlier when they were hunting for entertainment.

"The Beldam – she lives in the walls at our house and steals children." Nattie continues, hauling the unfortunate Tink to the toy chest. The cat does not look thrilled, but he doesn't look worried either. Rather, he looks like he's been dropped right on his head a few times and is a bit dazed, sagging in Nattie's arms as she searches through the box of tin trucks and wooden blocks and extracts a ruffley and colorful sort of collar that Nattie is pretty sure was supposed to be a hair band but has been so stretched it's just the right size for their game.

"What sort of children?" Danny asks, interested. He's rather dull as far as cousins go, but at the very least Danny can recognize an exciting story when he hears one.

"Any sort – Daddy says it's because she's lonely, but mostly just hungry." Nattie explains. She's pleased to be the only expert on this ghost story and she can tell Danny's a bit jealous that he isn't more knowledgeable on the subject, particularly one that involves such excitingly gruesome antagonists. "He says there are loads of them, all old and ugly and they live in old houses all over the world, just waitin' to steal away children for dinner."

"What does that have to do with your ugly cat?" Declan asks, skeptically. He thinks he knows _so_ much, being five and in primary school and hasn't been anything but nasty since Nattie's been to visit.

"Daddy says Beldams hate cats – cats know _all_ the Beldam's tricks to lure children away so they're always fightin'." Nattie explains, shoving Tink into Danny's hands so that she can stretch the ruffle over the cat's head. "Tink is an _excellent_ fighter – there! Now he looks like a proper lion!" She exclaims, clapping once. Tink however doesn't approve of this new development and gives a strangled sort of howl as the ruffle settles over the little bell he wears. Danny jumps in surprise when the formerly patient and unresponsive feline stiffens, sinks his claws into his hands and rolls awkwardly in efforts to escape. Nattie's bit shocked her own self – Tink hasn't been so enthusiastic about anything since they arrived and she was sure he'd be all droopy and cooperative like at home when he's tired and lets her stick him in the miniature pram Grandmother Eames sent her at Christmas.

"Hey!" Danny cries out at the sharp little pricks of Tink's claws and drops the crooked tabby, who takes off like a shot out the open door, bouncing once off the door jam before continuing on into the hall.

"Oh, Danny – see what you've done!" Nattie scolds as they trot out after Tink, Danny looking hurt and assuredly put out over the scratches on his hands and Declan snorting and shaking his head as though he could have told them 'Circus' was a stupid game to play in the first place. "Come on!" She encourages, leading them down the stairs. From the bottom steps, they watch as the stump of Tink's tail vanishes through the crack of the coat closet door.

"Go get him," Declan hisses with a glance around the banister and into the parlor where the grown-ups are arguing about something Nattie doesn't understand. Gran's cross and in quite a mood and both Declan and Danny look reluctant to interrupt. Nattie doesn't blame them – Mummy and Daddy and even Uncle Jackie would only just scold them for their rudeness and send them on their way, but Gran's not above smacking when she's this angry.

"Chicken." She retorts, for good measure, even though she's just as loath to creep out and risk discovery as the boys are. The space between the edge of the stairs and the open closet door looks longer and longer, especially when she risks her own look into the parlor and she's not in the mood for interrupting and getting in trouble this afternoon.

"Circus was your idea." Declan reminds her with a sneer.

"Fine." Nattie snorts and casts one final glance into the parlor, just to make sure Gran's not looking before crawling ever so stealthily over the furry green hall rug to the closet door.

Once inside, she congratulates herself on her sneakiness as she sits up in the tiny little room, surrounded by shoes and umbrellas and Daddy's work duffle, her head just below the hems of the hanging coats. The little sliver of light from the crack in the door on the coats casts a host of exciting shadows on the close walls and offers just enough light to spot the sulking Tink, who's all ready nested into Daddy's duffle and is giving off a host of little unhappy cat sounds at her presence.

"Come on, silly," She encourages and Tink sinks himself deeper into the open top of the duffle with another menacing little growl. "Let's go." Nattie holds out her hand and Tink snarls again, his good eye watching her movements ever so carefully and she inches closer, whispering soothing words. When Tink is within arms reach, she gets impatient and dives the last few centimeters, hands out to seize the cat before he can begin his getaway.

It isn't a graceful catch, but at the very least, it is a successful one.

Her knee catches on one of Grandda's big old Wellies as she gets in close and she pitches forward, right onto Daddy's duffle, tackling the unfortunate Tink who gives another hiss. Nattie makes a little 'umph' sound herself when she hits a hard something in the duffle and the cat yowls pitifully as she scrambles to keep a hold on him.

"Tink!" The unhappy tabby is still grumbling as she sits up, using the solid contents of the duffle as leverage. "Stop that!" She scolds, scratching at the remaining little tuft of ear he has left to calm him when something silver and shiny from inside the duffle catches her eye.

It glints off the warm glow from the crack between the door and the frame, not quite like a mirror or the sparkly stone in Mummy's favorite ring, but a bit duller, almost frosted like the old red and gold tin shapes that Grandmother Eames puts on her Christmas tree. Except unlike Grandmother's ornaments, this bit of shiny is silver, rectangular and much, much bigger, like the leather case Grandda keeps the old pictures of Uncles Johnny, Billy and Tommy who are In Heaven and his War letters in and calls an _attack-shay_. It's also got quite a few scratches and a couple perfectly round little dents, like the shape the rock from Declan's slingshot made when it hit Uncle Jack's car yesterday and it's most definitely the hard something she stumbled into.

There are fuzzy towels that Tink had snuggled into around most of the case, like the ones from the nice hotels they stay in on holidays, keeping it snug in the duffle and half hidden from anyone peeking in the open top and Nattie can tell she ought not to touch it. Of course, that doesn't stop her from pushing the fluffy white terry cloth out of the way, Tink still sulking in the crook of her left arm, so that she can trace the deep scratches, across the ridges in the metal to each of the little dents.

"Hey there, Nat." It's Daddy. Nattie hadn't even noticed him crack the closet door or crouch down next to her. "What are we up to, darling?"

"Catchin' Tink," She explains absently, still tracing one of the deeper scratches in the case. Daddy doesn't sound angry, rather more relieved, like he's got a fabulously good excuse for not listening to Gran, but there's something like worry in his face as he watches her carefully run her fingers over the grooves in the metal. "What is it Daddy?"

"Poor Tink, rough life he's got." Daddy smiles and scratches what's left of Tink's ear, before tugging the towel back over the case and pulling both her and Tink into his arms. "It's a treasure chest, petal." He explains, hefting her up so she can slip one arm around his neck for balance and still keep a hold of her cat.

"Really?" Nat can believe it. The big heavy wooden trunks like in her picture books can't be very practical to haul around, but a little silver case is sneaky small and excellently tough. "But you en't a pirate!" She giggles and Daddy chuckles, carrying her into the kitchen, where Grandda's leafing through the afternoon paper and Mummy's making those funny little sandwiches. Whatever argument they were having in the parlor has clearly ended with Uncle Jackie leaving for a bit and Gran storming upstairs to bemoan her good-for-nothing son and both Mummy and Grandda look just as relieved as Daddy that the argument's over. Declan and Danny have fled their hiding spot on the stairs and have also sought refuge in the kitchen and sit, fidgeting a bit and waiting for their sandwiches.

"Who said I needed to be pirate to have a treasure chest?" Daddy asks. The worry that was in his face when she was touching the case has vanished like it was never even there as he sets her in the little booster seat next to Danny's and takes Tink from her arms.

"Well, all the best pirates have them." Nattie explains as Daddy settles into the empty chair next to Grandda, scratching the top of Tink's mangy little head.

"I suppose they do." He agrees. "Say," Daddy asks, "have I ever told you about Africa?" And just like that, the duffle and the towels and the silver _attack-shay_ are forgotten among banana and chocolate sandwiches and tales of busy markets and camels and funny little pharmacists with cats and glasses.


End file.
